


whatever you can still betray

by princegrantaire



Series: drift down into the new dark light [2]
Category: Green Lantern (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But they're back!, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: It’s just a nightmare. Hal’s had plenty of those before. His father’s jet going down in flames, the smoking crater of a former city, the satisfying crunch of bones breaking under his fingers. In that order, most days. He knows about nightmares and mistrust and the therapy he can’t afford nor believes in.Knowingdoes nothing to calm his racing heart.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Thaal Sinestro
Series: drift down into the new dark light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785769
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	whatever you can still betray

**Author's Note:**

> MY BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD @SLAAPKAT SUBJECTED ME TO PARALLAX YESTERDAY AND I WENT FERAL ALL OVER AGAIN AND HAD TO DO SOMETHING WITH THE FEELINGS. THIS IS THE RESULT. LOVE U

It’s just a nightmare. Hal’s had plenty of those before. His father’s jet going down in flames, the smoking crater of a former city, the satisfying crunch of bones breaking under his fingers. In that order, most days. He knows about nightmares and mistrust and the therapy he can’t afford nor believes in. _Knowing_ does nothing to calm his racing heart.

He springs up, panting.

Distantly, Hal registers a hint of cold sweat sliding down the back of his neck. Acutely, Hal registers _silence_. He can’t do silence. Not anymore.

But -- and here’s the catch, there’s always one -- he can’t move either. There’s no sleeping body next to his to stir in the night and wrench him out of hypnotizing despair, no way to reach the remote laying on the floor and allow himself the brief respite of staring uncomprehending at the TV, bathed in artificial warmth. From his vantage point on the living room couch, where he must’ve dozed off in a fit of exhaustion, he can see the familiar contours of his living room.

Lamp. Coffee table -- cheap, glass faintly cracked. TV.

It’s all accounted for.

Not much at all.

If Hal moves, it might flicker. Blink, like an unsteady construct. It’s not even the same apartment. Well, no, of course not, the apartment had-- like the rest of the--

He breathes.

It’s not even the same apartment. Hal’s moved a grand total of five times in the ensuing years since the city without fear had cowered just enough. More, if one cares to count months spent couch-surfing. _It’s not even the same apartment_. The world does not, in fact, flicker. Hal catches a glimpse of his right hand, digging aimlessly into a couch cushion, and finds no ring on it. The laugh startled out of him sounds wrong to his own ears, strangled sob and nails on chalkboard.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself into action until he’s standing and his back rests against the wall. Hal doesn’t slide down, doesn’t ever take it easy, can’t let himself dwell on the unthinkable. It’s why nights are the hardest, quiet like he’s back on his knees in the ashes of all he’d ever known.

The old fear rears its head again.

And again.

He remembers the silence of the city, the nauseating ringing in his ears growing from the absence of-- _anything_. No birds overheard, waves on the coast, not a single goddamn sign of life. Outside, a police siren comes and goes, fades into the dark. Hal’s heart pauses its runaway act. If he strains a little, he can hear the not-so-far-away cries of a baby a couple doors up the hall, drunken amusement down below in the street, his own universe floating back into focus. Just a nightmare.

The glint of his ring, awash in momentary moonlight as clouds shift, seems to be calling to him. It’d be easy to reach out for it, it’s just-- _sitting_ there, harmless on the table, betraying nothing of what it’s capable of. The same could be said of Hal.

An infinite capacity for causing pain.

What’s messed up, just laughably _fucked up_ , is that he wouldn’t fly off. No trips to the Arctic or space or an accelerated journey around the world ‘till the burning in his lungs ensured he’s got his head on straight. No, if Hal were to reach for the ring right here and now, he knows his ever-traitorous self would just go ahead and text Sinestro, jump head first into the nearest distraction.

It’s nothing serious, not in the way things might’ve been with Carol before Hal had taken it upon himself to make things right and vanish down that rabbit-hole, but there _is_ an inherent measure of necessary trust. Inevitable, in its own way. They’d taken the foregone conclusion and gone from there.

Trust is a delicate balancing act that Hal’s yet to learn the steps to and he likes the solid certainty of Sinestro, who’s never grown into a habit of questioning his own decisions, who--

Whose neck Hal had once snapped with his bare hands.

The taste of an old victory makes him retch.

No yellowed bile comes out.

Hard to tell what he’d expected.

There’s no blur or sleepwalk-haze to the… _Parallax_ years. It’s all still playing in Hal’s mind. Nothing grandiose to Sinestro’s death -- a crack Hal had felt in his gut, the stench of blood and sweat, a body going limp in his arms like so many times after. There and gone in the blink of an eye. He can’t imagine it’d felt much like winning to Sinestro, can’t imagine asking either.

It’s an inadvisable agreement. They’re _even_ , supposedly, but none of the blood on Sinestro’s hands stains quite as bad.

The nightmares are never about the burning, the heat of the sun scorching him to his bones. Hal misses the relief. _It’s over_ , he’d thought. Death coming up fast and here was a way to make it count. Evidently, Hal hadn’t taken to it.

Somehow, in the decade that’s gone by since, there are still moments when Hal’s sure he’s right there even now, heading straight for the sun. Danger’s fine, if it means redemption.

And it never does.

What he and Sinestro have-- it’s new, compartmentalized elsewhere from the broken neck and the corruption of unlimited power, the _sickness_.

Yeah, Hal had been sick. These are just the aftershocks.

He peels himself off the wall, makes it to the bathroom with faltering steps and hesitates to turn on the light. He does, eventually, and ashamed of his own absurdity, stares at his reflection until it gets lost in the details. Shadows under his eyes and a few days’ worth of stubble. Not too bad. Hal relishes in the glimmer of recognition, tired beyond his years, uncomfortable in a too-tight skin that hasn’t felt like his since he’d clawed his way back to life. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for. _Good_. There’s no premature grey around his temples. He’d splurged for the good dye last time, he’s got another few weeks at least, he _has_ to.

Steadied by the lack of revelations, Hal’s started feeling a little ridiculous, a little more real, like he’s coming down from a particularly bad hangover. There’s still aches, not all physical.

This time, on the way back, he does reach for the ring on the coffee table, slips it on and flinches at the rush of-- will, maybe. He’s never found a good name for it. It used to feel like power, like he could do anything with it, all the untapped potential in the world forever at his fingertips. Now, it worries Hal, though he doesn’t _fear_ it and that, in turn, worries, too. If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s no getting it right.

He considers his original plan. Before any pros and cons can be properly weighed, his ring buzzes and Hal jumps a couple feet in the air. Incoming video transmission, apparently.

Okay.

That’s just _great_.

“Jordan,” Sinestro says in lieu of a greeting, tinted green by the call, “you look terrible.”

“Thanks, man. Really.”

It’s easy though, the usual back-and-forth. Hal doesn’t sink, doesn’t even float, he _soars_. Sinestro’s handed him a piece of himself, a routine he can get lost into. He’s more grateful than he’d ever like to admit, willing enough to find salvation in the light of fear as long as he’s not falling in the dark. Wisely, he doesn’t think of what else had been easy, of that resounding _crack_ as he’d--

“What?”

Sinestro frowns, chronically indignant at inattention. “I _said_ ,” and the emphasis can’t be missed, “I will be arriving at your apartment in approximately ten minutes.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Bad night?” Hal asks, can’t help wondering. It’s not every day Sinestro invites himself over without the customary text and heaps of plausible deniability, not that he’s complaining. Tonight’s a great night for new traditions.

“Yours doesn’t look any better.”

And Hal laughs, really does. It’s nothing like a sob, merely solace in something not unlike intimacy.

“See you in ten minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> FIND ME ON TUMBLR @ufonaut


End file.
